Immobile

by

F.H. Ponomarenko

 

Immobile they stood
for decades

Gleaming figurines behind
the tinted glass door of a
China cabinet

Fractures, chips, bruises,
long forgotten
I could point to them, whenever

Ripe age, however, affords many
unexpected reunions:

One roused, one roared,
one brushed past,
another gape-eyed stared--
this cast

Deception
Delusion
Expedience
Indifference

I slammed the door shut,
impelled my back against it,
bit my lip:

“Merde! Even memories are mutable.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 






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